Behind the Words
by Kansas42
Summary: Because the beauty's in the work, in making do with what you got. Preseries. Dean angst.


Summary: "The beauty's in the work, in making do with what you got." Pre-Series. Dean angst.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine, blah, blah, blah.

Author's Notes: This idea started awhile ago, when I watched "The Usual Suspects" for the first time. Dean did those anagrams in, like, a second, and my mind sort of went, "Hmmmm." One thing led to another and this came out.

"Behind the Words"

I. 

Dad asks about his day. Dean says he has to write a haiku.

Dad says, "God bless you."

Dean doesn't bother to correct him.

II. 

He's not sure when it happened exactly, but, somehow, Dean's turned into Sammy. He's been fucking . . . morose . . . for weeks now, and it's leaving him frustrated, edgy, and just plain exhausted. If he just knew what the hell was wrong with him . . . but he doesn't know. He doesn't have a fucking clue. The hunts have been going fine. Nobody had died. Dean's just so _tired_ all the time.

Usually his bad moods last all of twenty minutes, until he found a girl, or a hunt, to occupy his time. But this, though . . . this is different. This is _apathy_, and it's following him everywhere.

They didn't notice, of course. It's not like he expected them too. When Dad was thinking about anything other than a hunt, he was lecturing Sammy about being prepared. When Sam wasn't sticking his nose in some book, he was screaming at Dad about being _normal_. There were too many issues between Dad and Sam to fit anyone else. Like a brother. Or son.

Once upon a time, that hadn't been the case. Sam had freaking worshiped the ground he walked on. And Dad . . . Dad would listen to him. Dad would notice. Dad even threw a football around, on occasion.

Once, they had been family and, once, they had had Mom.

Now, they're just broken, and Dean doesn't know if he can fix it. 

"Dean?" 

Dean turns away from the window to look at Sam on the couch. For Christsake, he'd been standing at that window staring out at the freaking _rain_.

_This has got to stop. I'm turning into a godamned chick over here._

"Are you okay?" Sam asks.

Dean just smirks. "I'm always okay," he says lightly.

III. 

The haiku is due at the end of the week and, at first, it doesn't sound that hard. Three lines, for Godssake; that's all he had to do. Why can't more of his assignments be that fucking short?

He realizes his mistake shortly before dinner Monday evening. The first problem is that he doesn't know what the hell to write about. Mr. Larson had said that most haikus were about nature or whatever, but does he _look _like an Earth Day kind of guy? What's he supposed to write about, a tree? A bush? A freaking _flower_, for Christsake?

_Flowers are pretty._  
_If you like that kind of thing._  
_I don't. I like guns._

Dean doubts this will get him a passing grade.

The real bitch of this assignment, though, is the fucking syllable count. 5-7-5 . . .and who came up with _that_ bullshit? What, was it some kind of wacky torture device used to drive already nutty poets even nuttier? Does it _look_ like he needs this kind of crap right now? Does it _look_ like his life needs a little more stress?

By Tuesday morning, Dean's convinced that The Creator of the Haiku was an agent of Satan.

_Just how does one kill_  
_a demonic poetry freak?_

_Exorcise the bastard._

5-7-6.

Godmotherfucking_dammit_.

Dean crumples up his assignment in disgust and hurls it as hard as he can at the door. Sammy, of course, chooses this moment to walk in. The paper smacks him square on the forehead.

Sam glares at Dean as if he'd done it on purpose. "You're such a jerk," he says and stomps away.

_Dean! Be careful! You_  
_Might mess up my perfect hair!_  
_Whiny little bitch._

Dean taps his finger thoughtfully. It needs some work, he decides, and it's not the smoothest thing ever, but it makes him grin all the same.

Maybe this whole haiku thing wasn't so bad after all.

IV. 

By Wednesday, Dean finds that he's sort of enjoying this assignment, even if it is freaking . . . _poetry_. After you get used to the whole syllable deal, it's kind of fun to tinker with them, like rebuilding an engine out of old parts. It's not meant to be an easy job. The beauty is in the work, in making do with what you got. 

This is something Dean considers himself to be quite an expert in. 

Holding your brother, for example, when he's bleeding blood like ink from his stomach, and you can't tell if the blood is so black from the darkness of the night or from a puncture to the liver. Calling for your dad, _screaming_ for your dad, and you don't have a first aid kit, just a rifle and the shirt on your back. So you take the shirt off and wrap it around his wound, and when he's on the verge of passing out, going asleep, going _away_, you use every trick you have to keep him conscious one second longer. You tease him and you insult him and you promise him things you couldn't hope to control, because you have to make do with what you got, and what you got is your brother.

_His blood on your hands._  
_Dad said, "Take care of Sammy."_  
_Dean's failed. Failed again._

Dad comes and fixes everything and says, "Dean, where the hell were you?" and for the first time in his life, Dean thinks, _Where the hell was I? Where the hell were YOU?_ But he doesn't say it because Dad's right; Sammy is his responsibility, and he can't blame nothing or nobody for his failure, his mistakes.

Later, in the car when he knows Sam is too out of it to tell, Dean holds him in his arms and says, "Sorry, Sammy."

"I'm so sorry."

V. 

Dean stays home with Sam the next day while Dad goes to make sure there are "no loose ends." Sam is sitting on the couch and unusually quiet, and it makes Dean nervous as hell.

"You still playing with that geekbook?" Dean asks, just to have something to say. Sam's geekbook is a coverless, battered puzzle book, 98 of the damage done in pre-Winchester days. The thing's full of riddles, anagrams, word searches; dumb shit like that that Sam gets a kick out of. Dean had known he would, which was why he had bought it, shelling out two bucks for what shoulda cost ten cents. 

Sam still hasn't answered, so Dean takes a step closer. "Sammy? Hey, Sammy, Earth to Geekboy? Sam?"

Sam looks up, startled. "Oh, uh . . . yeah. Yeah, I'm just fiddling with some of these anagrams." He starts to fidget minutely against the couch, and Dean sighs before coming over.

"Uh-huh," Dean says as he rests on the couch arm. "Now, what's wrong with you? You look like you've just seen the Easter Bunny or something." 

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. "_Most_ people would have said a ghost."

"Yeah, well, most people are a bunch of retards. Besides, a ghost is easy to get rid of. Shoot some salt, burn the bones. Cakewalk, baby. Anyone could do it. But a six foot rabbit running around? No fucking thank you. I'd take Casper any day"

"You're not _normal_," Sam mutters.

"Who wants to be normal?" Dean replies.

Sam doesn't even go for it. He just stares harder at his book. "I can't get these last two," he says. "It's been driving me nuts for the last ten minutes."

Dean takes the book from Sam, glances at the letters and the anagrams Sam's already made. "Swish," he says after a second. "And shunt." He gives the book back and looks longingly at the broken television. "You know, it's just not fair. I _finally_ manage to get free porn off that damn thing, and it busts on me two days later." He sighs dramatically. "I think God hates me." 

Sam is staring at him.

"What?" 

Sam doesn't move.

Dean shifts self-consciously on the couch. "What? I got food in my teeth or something?" He picks at his teeth but they come away clean. 

"You're smart, Dean," Sam says.

Dean just blinks at him. "Okaaaaay," he says. "Well, thanks, dude, but I already knew that. Big brothers know everything, you know. 'Bout time you finally figured that out."

But Sam's already shaking his head, eyes rolling to relate that Dean's missed the point. "_No_, Dean. You're _smart_. I mean, you always act like you're not, but . . . you're really good at stuff like this."

"Sammy, it's just a stupid word game."

"No, Dean, it's not. This stuff's actually kind of hard. It's not easy, you know, to mix around letters, to see past what's directly ahead of you. It takes _time_ to do stuff like this. You saw those words in like a second."

Dean shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention. "Okay, so, yeah, I'm, like, good with anagrams. Big freaking deal, Sammy Boy. It's not like twisting around some freaking _letters_ is ever gonna help me in life. I mean, I kinda doubt Casper's going to be seriously impressed because I can do fuckin' _word searches_."

"But that's my point, Dean," Sam says, straightening in his excitement. The sudden movement makes him wince and his hand goes quickly to his stomach. Dean gets up, ready to help, but Sam just continues with his freight train of a mouth. "You can have more than this," Sam says, and Dean stops dead where he is.

_Not this AGAIN._

"More than what?" Dean snaps. "More than keeping evil from hurting people? More than saving innocent lives, Sammy? More than my family?" 

"More than _this_," Sam says and gestures to thick bandages wrapped around his waistline. "More than this half-life, more than hunting, more than nearly dying every other night."

Dean's face softens, and he eases back down on the seat of the couch. "Sammy," he says gently, "last night—look, I know it scared you—"

"Dean—" 

"No, Sammy, it's okay. It scared me too, all right, and Dad—don't shake your head at me. You gotta trust me. It scared Dad too, okay? I can tell. But you don't have to be scared anymore, Sammy, cause it's not gonna happen ever again."

"Yeah?" Sam challenges, his eyebrows practically reaching the top of his forehead. "What's going to stop it?"

"Me," Dean says. "_I'm_ going to stop it."

Sam shakes his head. "Don't you get it, man? You _can't_." 

"Yes, I _can_," Dean says and closes his eyes. For a moment, just a moment, he can see that black blood dripping from his fingertips, and then he opens his eyes again, letting them rest on Sam's face. "Look, Sam, I know . . . I know I screwed up last night, okay?" 

"Dean—" 

"No, I know, okay. I know. I got you hurt, and I'm sorry, man, but you got to believe me, Sammy, it's not going to happen again—" 

"_Dean_." 

Dean stops talking. Sam looks . . . well, Dean's not sure, exactly. Bewildered, definitely, and a little hurt, like he was a puppy who just got kicked or something. But then Sam's eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw, and this is a very familiar face. This is a Pissed Off Sammy face, and Dean's not sure what he said to evoke it. 

"Dean, you did _nothing_ wrong last night, you hear me? You didn't get me hurt. It's Dad who got me hurt, Dean."

_Where the hell was I? Where the hell were YOU?_

Dean quickly pushes that thought away.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No. You can't put this one on Dad. He's doing—"

"The best he can," Sam says. "Yeah, Dean. I know." He sounds tired and pissed off and that's just exactly how Dean feels too.

"He _is_, goddamnit," Dean snaps, "and—"

(_You don't understand_)

"—he's our Dad, man. The least you could do is cut him so fucking slack now and again."

(_and it's not your fault, but_)

"You don't understand what it's like for him. You don't understand—" 

(_Mom was everything_.)

"—What he's been through, what's he's done for us."

"All he's done is put us in harm's way instead of letting us be normal!" Sam's standing now, and wincing, but he wouldn't accept help even if Dean felt inclined. "All he's done is act like we're his soldiers and forget that we're his fucking sons!" 

"Sam—" 

But Sam won't listen, and it's all that Dean can do.

"I'm not going to be stuck here forever." (_I don't need you, Dean_) 

"This is Dad's quest." (_I'm leaving your ass behind_.)

"I'm getting out." (_And you can't stop me_.)

Dean wishes he could just stop hearing the words behind the words.

But he can't, because it's what he's good at it. Mixing up letters, listening for haikus. He can see past what's directly in front of him, for all the good that's gonna do. Sam's gonna leave him, gonna take off someday, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. It hurts too much to think about, so Dean lets the apathy take over again.

"Yeah," he says, standing. "You do what you gotta do, Sammy."

And Dean leaves Sam hurt and alone and doesn't let himself look back. 

VI. 

It's Thursday and the haiku's due tomorrow and Sam and Dad are screaming at each other like always. Dean wants to listen to his walkman, drown out the noise, but the thing's busted once again. This time, Dean doesn't think he can save it. It's just too far gone to repair. 

Dean stares at his blank piece of paper, willing the assignment to just magically appear, and then puts his hands against his forehead, trying to push back the pressure accumulating there. There's a pack of cigarettes burning a hole in his pocket, and they'd help with the pressure. Dean knows they'd help. But he also knows that he can't risk Dad catching him, and the _beating_ he'd get wouldn't be worth the momentary reprieve.

He'd just have to wait till tomorrow, when he got to school and Dad wasn't around. Dad should have figured it out anyway . . . but Dad wasn't paying attention.

At least, not to Dean.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Sam? Hunting is what we do! Hunting is who we are! And you had damn well better learn it!"

"I'm don't have to follow your orders, Dad! I'm not a part of your fucking platoon!"

"Godammit, Sam! You will listen to me!"

_No_, Dean thinks, _Sam's not the one who listens._

He pulls his cigarettes out of his back pocket and stares at them longingly for a moment before putting them back regretfully. He takes out his lighter instead.

_Flick on and Dad screams._  
_Flick off and Sammy screams back._  
_Flick—and Dean breaks._

Again. And again.

Dean doesn't know why he does it, exactly, just that he's still channeling some Lifetime special cutter chick, but when he flicks his lighter back on he purposefully holds it too close to his left hand. He can feel the skin of his palm slowly burning, and it hurts, but that's okay. That's sort of the whole point, really. He remembers her best when it hurts.

And man, it hurts _bad_ right now, but he can't seem to pull his hand away. He's so busy watching his skin melt like wax that he doesn't hear the end of the fight.

He doesn't hear Dad stomp off and slam the door, looking for refuge in some cheap bar. He doesn't hear Sam open _Dean's_ bedroom door, looking to bitch about the injustice of life.

He _does_ hear a, "_Jesus_, Dean," and he looks up quickly to see what's hurting Sammy.

Sam knocks the lighter out of his hand, where it hits some nearby paper and nearly sets the room on fire. Dean gets up quickly and they stop the flame from spreading before Sam actually grabs Dean by the shoulders. "Dean," Sammy says, "man, what the _hell_?" 

And Dean can't explain it, has no words or haikus for this, so he just stands there and laughs, as if anything about this is funny. His laughter is quiet, nothing too loud or screechy or hysterical, but he still sounds like a broken toy, and the look on Sam's face means he hears it.

Sam waits for a few minutes, until the laughter tapers off, and then he takes Dean by the arm and pulls him into the bathroom. Cold water, then, but it's not doing much for the burn. Dean tries to remove his hand and Sam shoves it back in the sink again.

They stand like that, silently, Sam's fingers locked around his wrist, until Dean finally says, "Don't tell Dad," because it's the only thing he can think of to say.

Sam looks at him for a full minute, jaw clenching in the dim lighting. "I won't," he says finally, "if you promise never to do this again."

Dean watches the water pour over his skin, trying to heal wounds that weren't meant to be healed. The fire, the heat . . . he can remember it so clearly. He can see his mother, bleeding and burning on the ceiling.

_Said it didn't hurt._  
_Angels took her to the sky_.  
_They lied. She died. She burned_.

One syllable off, but who the fuck was counting?

"Dean? Dean, you promise me, dammit."

Dean nods. "I promise, Sammy. I promise."

VII. 

Dean has a smattering of haikus written on several scraps of paper, but there's nothing he can turn in. They're all too sad and all too true.

Friday comes and he turns in this, written on a crumpled piece of graph paper:

_I'm almost 18._  
_Can't wait till I graduate_.  
_No more haikus. Ever._

He gets it back the next week with a C- and a note about potential.

He reads the note and then throws it in the bathtub with the rest of his poems. Then it's flick on, flick off, and burn, baby, burn.

VIII. 

In the end, nothing really changes.

School still sucks, and he can't wait to get out. The hunts continue. Sometimes, those suck too.

Dad and Sam still fight all of the time. Dinners are always accompanied by screams or silence.

Sometimes, Dean still feels like no one's watching. Sometimes, he wants to put his hand back in the flames.

But he promised Sam he wouldn't. So he puts the lighter away and finds something else.

He can't save their family. Somehow, he knows that. Somehow, he knows that he's 13 years too late. He'll always be there in the middle, but he can't put them back together again.

So he takes his walkman and turns it into an EMF meter because the beauty's in the work. The beauty's in making do with what you got. And this is what he's got:

A father. A brother. Some guns. A mission.

It's not enough, it's never enough, but it'll just have to do.

-Fin 

Author's Notes: Virtual hugs for reviews? Cookies, if that's more your thing.


End file.
